Thanksgiving - Chapter 10
I visited the farm several more times over the course of the summer, each time spending a little more time around the kitchen table with my half-sisters or with my dad, exploring the prairie in his truck. I was quickly beginning to love these times together in particular. Just him and I. He would take this city girl out to check the fields, explaining and showing me what made a good canola, pea, and lentil crop. One of my bosses in the private equity firm where I worked was a died in the wool farm boy. He knew every inch of the province and had turned his passion for farmland and investing into a very successful multi-million dollar farmland investment fund. Over the years he would often regale me with his enthusiastic talk of farming. Crops. Commodities. Harvests. Soil. I would smile and nod and he knew that all I really heard was blah-blah-blah lentil crop. blah-blah-blah secondary land prices. But suddenly, in one short afternoon with my dad, him splitting open the canola pods and allowing me to touch and feel and taste...well...it became special. We would drive out to the pasture to drop off a salt lick and while we stood there, him explaining the different variety of cattle and what cuts of meat they were used for, we tried to get the cows to pay us a visit. They could tell I was a city slicker and declined. I’m positive their looks were filled with a hint of contempt and slight bemusement. We turned and walked the prairie and from time to time he would bend down and show me the wide variety of prairie grasses - the yarrow, goldenrod, native alfalfa and so on. He would pick one and show me the unique characteristics of each species - the number of petals on a bloom, the shape of the stem, the smell of the plant, and what the natives who roamed the land used each plant for. Although the actual information may not have stuck with me, what did impress itself on me was the visual - of him taking the time to explain his world to me. He was so smart but he was also tactile. Each bit of information was fitted with a hands-on demonstration. And I so got that.
One afternoon after our prairie excursion, we relaxed in the shade of the tent erected in the side yard. Norma had provided us with cool drinks and snacks and some alone time. It was there that my dad asked me about my marriage and what was happening with my kids. I still wanted, in the worst way, to white-wash this part of my life. I didn’t want him to worry about me. Nor did I want him to judge me or my kids. How could a mother raise a kid that could reject her so out rightly? It spoke to my failure as a mother and struck a blow to the core of my being. But he was gracious and tender. He acknowledged how I was feeling stating, out loud, what I was keeping locked up and hidden away from others, “Annette, you must be hurting terribly”. It helped immensely for him to say it out loud with such compassion. He asked me again if I was safe in my home and I told him the truth. I told him the barriers I felt were in my way that prevented me from moving out of the house. He reassured me that if there was anything he could do to help me in that regard, he would. I thanked him for the offer, but in my head I was rejecting that proposal. I would not take anything from him. I had not sought him out to take anything from him. What I said out loud was that I did not typically ask for help and that it was very hard for me to do so.
That comment shook me up a little. He was sincere but I didn't know how to accept that offer. I thanked him for it and would spend a lot of time in the months ahead mulling over his willingness to help me. The reality was this: if my kids had ever needed anything - or asked me for help - I was there for them. I never hesitated. Early childrearing aside, as they entered adulthood, how many boxes had I packed and apartments had I cleaned or condo's had I painted. How many times had I loaned them money or bought them something they needed. How many times did I babysit grandchildren or my kids pets. How many trips to the hospital - not only when they were kids - but grown adults - had I made. I had always been there for my kids. Now here was my dad, offering his daughter help, and everything inside of me resisted accepting it or asking for it. This would be another aspect of this new relationship I would wrestle with.
When I left that weekend, we embraced and my dad, referencing the day I met him face to face, would tell me, “December the 5th was the happiest day of my life. I’m so glad you did that". Me too.
Two years earlier, in July of 2011 I had come back to the Comox Valley for Margaret's memorial service. At the time I had been in Saskatchewan for 23 years and had not been back home for more than 10 years. I was back in the Valley no longer than 36 hours but from that moment, I felt an intense pull to “come home”. I had returned to visit several times in 2013. The ocean was where I felt at peace - something I really needed that year - but a week before I left for the Island in late August, I fell into a depression. I remember it vividly. Up until that moment I had felt as if I had all the tumultuous situations in my life under control. Lots of things were not going well but I felt as if I had a handle on them nonetheless. I got out of shower; getting ready for work and it was as if I did not see the huge pit behind me and I took an unsuspecting step backward, irretrievably losing my balance; plummeting down into the pit. I desperately grasped at anything to stop my fall but to no avail. Once down there, I tried to climb out on my own. No luck. When I arrived that first night in Comox, I found my B&B, politely spoke with the owner, then pulled the shades, crawled into bed and cried myself to sleep. The only people I spoke with during my visit were those that knew I was coming and happened to call me. Other than that - I could not bring myself to visit with friends. I tried to put on a brave face for my dad and Norma too. At the beginning of the week I would send them pictures of cool things I found on the beach and tell them of the places I was exploring. But I did not tell them how sad I was. I was so emotionally exhausted that toward the end of the week I gave up the effort to email them altogether. Several friends had already told me that I needed to consider moving into my own place to find myself some respite but I had resisted up to that point. When I got home from my trip however, I knew I was in trouble. I was under great stress, not sleeping and unable to eat much. The year thus far had taken it’s toll. And now I was in a depression I couldn’t seem to get out from under. I did three things. Saw my doctor, saw my lawyer, and I finally came clean to my dad and Norma about my state of mind. They had emailed me to ask if I was alright since they had not heard from me. I admitted to them that I had hit a wall and their response was so compassionate. Their offer to lend a listening ear - just for me to unload some of the burdens I carried, was so kind. My dad told me he wasn’t sure he could solve any of my problems, but that he was here to talk about it and he would help if he could. I deeply appreciated their support. My doctor put me on medication to help my anxiety and sleeplessness and my lawyer gave me the green light to find a place of my own. With the help of some co-workers and a developer we knew, I was moved into my new apartment by the first week of October. It was then that I knew how stressful my life at home had become. In my new living room, I sat down on my couch, looked out the door at the horizon and breathed a sigh of relief. Yet, I was still sad. I was not where I wanted to be. But it was a respite nonetheless. And one thing I was learning, that being in the company of my dad, Norma and half-sisters left me feeling light and unburdened.
I drove to the farm for Thanksgiving weekend. It was one of the first major holidays without my kids. I wanted to share it with them but they were unwilling. Indications were that my daughter was hosting dinner at her house to which I was not invited. A lovely woman at my church had invited me to her home so I would not have to spend the weekend alone, but Norma had beat her to it; she had instructed me to come to the farm. So - this time - knowing how things worked in the Connick clan - I baked pumpkin pies to bring to the party. It was a noisy weekend and I was becoming more and more comfortable in their home. Since my very first arrival, they had showed me the guest room downstairs where I could put my things. By this time, Norma was starting to call it “my room” and that meant the world to me. I was unpacking my things into “my room” when I noticed a new picture on the dresser. There had previously been photos of my Gramma and Grampa Connick, and one each of Karen and Lisa. But this time, sitting in a frame on that dresser, was a picture of me. One they had taken at a previous visit. I smiled and sat down on the bed and let that settle over me for a bit. That small detail told me I had found a place in their family.
As was becoming the custom, we spent hours around the kitchen table talking - filling in the details of our respective lives. At the first visit, I had been inundated with names and relationships of people. My dad had even shown me a large sheet of plywood that one of his cousins had painted that carefully mapped out the Connick family tree. It included ancestors from both my Grandmothers side of the family as well as my Grandfathers. It seemed impossible at that moment to grasp the fact that I was a part of that deep heritage. That I was related to these people. That they were each a part of me. So many faces and so many names. But with each visit, I was able to piece together who was who and how they fit into the scheme of the Connick family. And I was beginning to feel at home. How could I not with Norma telling me that they did, in fact, love me. “What’s not to love?” she would say.
My last morning at the farm that Thanksgiving weekend, I smiled as I walked upstairs for breakfast. My dad was ever thoughtful. There was always a mug of hot water waiting for me. Not to drink. But to keep my cup warm until I got upstairs to pour my coffee. As I was loading up my car to head back home, Norma was packing me a lunch and stocking me up with goodies for the week ahead. She wrapped me a bouquet of her pansies to cheer me up. And my dad was on his knees in the grass scraping the mud from my runners. How was it, that this solitary woman, who - less than a year ago - felt she had hardly a soul to care about her - was now so blessed with people this thoughtful and kind. As I got into my car to drive away my dad handed me a card. In it was a cheque. A rather large one. “This is to help with your move” he said. I didn’t know what to say. I was shocked and the old demons were clawing their way to the top trying to tell me he was buying his way into my life. Filthy demons. I pushed them down and said thank you and told him the truth - that I appreciated the thoughtfulness. I declined to hurt his feelings by refusing it. Be mature about this, I told myself. He told me I could use it to pay for my move or the legal bills I was incurring or just to buy something as a house warming for my new apartment. I decided then that this would be used for something I needed for my apartment. Something that would remind me of them every time I used it.
Yes, every time I left the farm, my heart was not just full, but overflowing. I would drive home and cry tears of joy, thank God, and look back in wonder at what had transpired from a simple and unexpected conversation with an old friend nearly a year ago. It was all a miracle. And I was smack dab in the middle of it. The recipient of it. It truly was a Thanksgiving!
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